“Another of the narc boys is here. Says he wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him, I’ll be right there.”

The door closed, and Lopez stood. He dropped the card on the desk.

“Fucking cops,” he said to Starrell. “They keep coming in here and telling me they think this place is a major transit point. That’s camel shit. They want to look around. But if I drop a C on them, it’s gonna be cool. The cost of doing business in the capital of the fucking Free World. You”—he pointed at Starrell—“don’t move your butt. I’ll be back.”

Alone, Starrell examined the empty office. There was a poster for an old movie on one wall. He knew one of the names on the poster: Marilyn Monroe. But he didn’t know the other two names. Both were men. There was a photo of Lopez with his arms around two white guys. They were wearing T-shirts and military khakis and standing in front of a helicopter. Hanging on the door was a black bull whip. His arms hurt where the men had held him.

Lopez returned to the office.

“You can stop a lot of useless talk with a hundred,” he said.

He leaned against the desk.

“You’re lucky, boy, that I landed when I did. You were messing with America’s finest.”

Starrell didn’t catch the reference.

“Marines, you motherfucker.”

“Those guys upstairs?”

“Affirmative.”

“Shit, man, you’re telling me they’re fag Marines?”

Lopez put his hands together as if he were praying.

“Thank the fucking Lord, my son.”

“No way.”

“Fucking way, boy. What could be better for a fag-bar owner? Those lads can drink a god-damn sea all night and still run their six in the A.M.”

“And … you?”

“I own the place. That’s all anyone has to know about me.”

“But is you … was you a Marine?”

Starrell nodded toward the photograph of Lopez by a helicopter.

“Kinda. But my story’s not priority-one here, ace. You are. Why are you looking for Brother Raymond?”

Fuck, Starrell thought, he knows him.

“I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

Starrell went through the story.

“And why’d you come here?”

“A girl who worked there was complaining to me he never was there to TCB. She told me about here. Said she knew he be coming here. So I came to scope.”

“Listen,” Lopez said. “I don’t suffer bullshit. And I don’t like punks snooping around here. I make my money off a clientele that appreciates privacy. You see a scene out front like they got on P Street?”

Starrell shook his head.

“Damn straight. Can’t even tell what’s going on inside. And we’ve been here for years. On a need-to-know basis.”

Lopez pulled on his beard and put his face in front of Starrell’s.

“So don’t be scoping round here no more. Got it?”